


Coming Back

by watsonimholmes



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, POV John Watson, Past Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Suicidal Thoughts, War flashbacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watsonimholmes/pseuds/watsonimholmes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the war John doesn't know what to do with his life. Anger turns to depression and John almost doesn't make it to his meeting with Sherlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Back

Great. Another goddamn Monday, I think as I wake up that morning. Another therapy day. I sigh. I throw back the covers with my good arm, and sit on the side of my bed. I stand up, and stumble as I try to get a hold of my cane, my leg unable to bear my weight. Swearing and mumbling to myself angrily, I limp to the kitchen. Not like that's far away, with my goddamn tiny mouse hole of a flat. I open the fridge, and (surprise, surprise) there’s nothing in it. “At least I still have bread.” I mumble to myself, opening the cupboard. There isn’t any bread. I slam the cupboard shut, and limp back to my room. I pull on a pair of trousers, and a shirt. Grabbing my coat, I make my way outside. I don’t have a job, so I wander around London trying to out walk my bad mood. It doesn’t work. I have no job, living on a disability pension; I don’t even have enough money to buy bread. My mood just seems to get worse and worse. Will this day ever end? I haven’t even gotten to the worst part, I think, as I stop in front of a large building. 

Therapy.

I sit on the edge of my bed, my head in my hands. I ended up buying a loaf of bread and some sandwich meats, and that’ll be my food for the next few days. My leg throbs from all the walking today, and my shoulder aches for no other reason than it once had a bullet in it. I lie down on my bed, attempting to get some sleep tonight, but I doubt I will. I close my eyes, and slowly exhaustion takes me. 

I'm back in Afghanistan. A dying man lies before me, his face pale, and a bullet in his stomach. I know he’s going to die, and so does he, but I don’t say anything. I just keep working. He looks straight into my eyes, musters all his strength, and whispers two words to me. His body tenses, then quickly relaxes, the light leaving his eyes. I check his pulse. The man before me lies dead on the operating table. There was nothing I could do. Another life gone. Only after do I realise the words he said to me were ‘I'm sorry’ 

The scene changes. I'm a passenger in a heavily armored vehicle. We’re moving camp. There are vehicles behind me and one up ahead. I'm joking with some of my military buddies, when my world is suddenly filled with light. The next thing I know is I am in a hospital bed of some kind, my friends lying around me. But not all of them are there. Later I find out they didn’t make it.

The scene changes again, and I'm still in Afghanistan, but I'm on my last mission. Four of us move very quietly through an abandoned city, when suddenly gunfire breaks the silence. We duck for cover, but it’s too late. A blinding pain rips through my shoulder, and I collapse to the ground, almost blacking out from the pain. Somehow I make it out, but I'm the only one. 

It’s no longer scenes and memories that go by, but only images. Everyone I couldn’t save as a doctor, everyone I was forced to kill as a soldier. Every dying young man, just old enough to join the army, and is now paying for it with his life. Every friend I ever had, that didn’t make it out. Every young woman I ever met, with so much life left to live in them. People who had families, girlfriends, boyfriends, who had lives, back home. Ones they can never return to. I see a face that haunts me every time I close my eyes, and I wake with a start. 

I sit up straight in bed, sweating and gasping for air. My heart is beating a million miles a minute and I curl my legs to my chest, and wrap my arms around them. My lungs never being able to bring in enough air, I struggle to take a deep breath. I finally get my breathing under control, but it’s not enough. The memories still haunt me, night after night. Tears begin to roll down my cheeks, and I am unable to stop them, no matter how hard I try. After a while I stop trying. Sobs rack my body as I try to get it all out of my system, but I never will get it out of my system. Someday I’ll just run out of tears. Finally, I feel as if all the strength has left my body, so I just lie on the bed, and stare into the darkness, trying to avoid my own thoughts. But I can’t, so I just sit there. A little while later, I look over at my clock. It reads 4:30. I sigh. Too early to get up and go outside, but I'm not going back to sleep anytime soon. Eventually I drag myself out of bed and into the shower. 

By the time I get out of the shower, get dressed and eat breakfast, it’s almost 6 o’clock. I decide to go out for a walk. I get outside, thankful for the fresh air, and something catches my eye. A newspaper stand, right outside my door. The headline immediately catches my eye. I pick it up and start to read.  
Seven killed in Afghanistan bomb blast. 

Seven more of our brave soldiers killed with a roadside bomb. The funeral will be held later this week. They will be dearly missed.  
I can’t read any more. I drop the paper, not wanting to know who it was. I should have been there, I think. I should be out in the field, with them, helping them save lives. Risking my own for others. The newspaper sales man yells at me and I stumble away, seeing her every time I close my eyes. Please god, don’t let it be her. Deciding today isn’t the day for a walk, I quickly get back to my flat, trying to shut out the world. 

That day, I sit alone in my flat, trying to shut out the nightmares. The next day, I get a phone call. My phone never rings; no one ever calls, so I don’t know what to expect. I pick up the phone. 

“Hello?” I say. 

“Hello, is this Doctor Watson?” the voice asks. 

“Yes.” I reply, curious to see who is on the line.

“This is a representative from the British Army.” 

“No...” I say quietly, knowing what comes next. 

“I'm sorry to inform you that Holly Margret died in a roadside bombing a few days ago. I am so sorry for your loss. She told me to call you if anything happened.” the voice says. I drop the phone. It cracks, but I don’t care. I faintly hear the voice of the operator, asking if I am okay.

“I AM NOT OKAY!” I yell, kicking the phone into the wall, making the line go dead. I sink to the floor, muttering “No,no, this can’t happen.” Over and over. “this isn’t fair!” I yell again, angry. Angry at the rep, for telling me with no feeling, angry at the bombers, who took her away from me. Angry at the whole world. I should have been there! I should have been there to protect her. My head in my hands, eyes closed, I replay every moment we ever had together. Amidst the war, the sadness, and all the deaths, we had happiness. We had love. And now it’s gone. We could have had a life here, when she came home. But now it’s been ripped away from me. I sit like that for a long time, until day turns to night, and eventually I fall asleep on the kitchen floor. 

The nightmares are worse. All I see is her. Her face, with every emotion. Every time we ever worked together. When she was hurt, I fixed her up. When I was hurt, she fixed me up. We took care of each other. Now no one cares for me, and I for no one. I have no motivation to get up that morning, so I just lie on the kitchen floor. Later that day, there’s a knock on the door. I don’t move. Why bother? The knocking gets louder, and I hear my sister Harry (short for Harriet) calling my name. I still don’t move. She lets herself in. She sees me lying on the kitchen floor and thinks the worst. 

“John!” she exclaims, running towards me. She props me up against the cupboards, happy I’m still breathing. She sighs. “Oh, John, I thought you were dead! Why are you lying here?” she asks, confused. I mumble in reply.

“Holly.” Is all I say. 

“Oh...” she says in realization. “John...” she starts, no knowing what to say. “I’m so sorry.” I don’t respond. Why should I? She’ll never understand. After a while she tells me I need to get up off the floor. I don’t move. She keeps telling me, and she tries to do it by force. 

“Go away.” I say in frustration. She sighs and sits on the floor beside me. We don’t talk. 

Hours later, I get up. My sister looks at me, worried. 

“Where are you going?” she asks. 

“I just need to pee.” I say, and make my way to the washroom. When I come back to the kitchen, Harry is sitting on my kitchen chair. I sigh. 

“Harry, you don’t have to stay. I’ll be alright.” Harry studies me. 

“Are you sure?” she says after a while.

“Yeah, you can go on home to Clara.” I say, and Harry looks at the floor.

“She left me.” 

“Harry, I'm so sorry. What happened?” I ask. 

“The drinking...” is all she says, but I understand. “Look John, if you’re okay on your own, I have to take care of some stuff. I'm so sorry for your loss. Call me if you need anything.” I nod. 

“I'm sorry about Clara.” I say. 

“Me too.” Harry says, and heads out the door.

I decide to nap. I'm exhausted with grief and sore from sleeping on the floor. My nap is plagued with nightmares, but I get some rest. I need food, so I go to my side drawer to get my wallet. I open the drawer, but the first thing I see is black, metal and cold. It’s my gun. I pull it out. I hold it in my hands. Such a small thing, but it can cause so much damage. The number of deaths I’d seen at the hands of such a small, common object. The power I held in my hands, it was alarming. I had the power to leave. Leave this life, this sadness, this endless terror. To be with her again. Maybe I’d be born again, maybe I’d be happy. I thought of what my life had become. It was nothing. Nobody cared about me. My life was nothing, and nightmares. Nightmares, hunger and therapy. Nothing. With numb hands, I loaded the gun and switched the safety off. I raised to my temple. Taking a deep breath, I prepared to squeeze the trigger – and dropped the gun. It fell to the bed with a muted thud. Pulling my legs to my chest, I started to cry. All the lives I saved, every time I fought to be alive, I was going to give it away. How could I even think that? How could I be so selfish? I fell asleep, tears drying on my face, my head filled with sour thoughts. 

I wake the next morning with a distant memory of a nightmare. It was the first full night I’d slept in a long time. I decide to go for a walk. I need to get out of my flat, out of my head. I was walking through a park when I heard my name being called. 

“John? John Watson?” a rather large man asked me in disbelief. I turned around. 

“Yes...” I said uncertainly. “Do I know you?” 

“Mike, Mike Stamford. From Uni?” he said. As soon as he said his name I recognized him. We sat in the park and talked about how our lives were now. I mentioned something about rent. We suggested getting a flatmate. 

“Oh, come on. Who would want to be my flatmate?” I said. Mike laughed. 

“You know, you’re the second person who has said that to me today.” 

“Well, who’s the first?” I ask. 

 

We ended up taking a cab to St. Barts Hospital. I walked into a lab, and there was a man standing at a microscope. He was tall, pale, with dark black hair that curled around his ears. His eyes were gray; it was as if he had no color in him at all. He was incredibly handsome. Mike sat in a chair, as if waiting for something. The man standing at the microscope looked up and walked over to him. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked. I looked around; he was talking to me. 

“Excuse me?” I asked, confused. I looked at mike. “You told him? Why?” 

“I didn’t tell him anything. Just wait.” He said, a smirk on his face. I looked back at the man before me. He proceeded to tell me my entire life, explaining every bit of it. My posture, my tan, my cane and my face were how he could tell I was a veteran. My phone was how he could tell my sister was a drunk. When he was done I stared at him in amazement.  
“Incredible.” I breathed. 

“I assume you want to share a flat?” he said. 

“I don’t even know your name, I don’t know anything about you.” I said, still shocked from before. 

“I am a consulting detective for the Scotland Yard. Meet me at 221B Baker Street 7 o’clock tomorrow evening. The name is Sherlock Holmes.” he said as he winked, and disappeared out the door. I just stared at the door in amazement. 

The next day I met Sherlock at 221B Baker Street, 7 o’clock sharp. He continued to amaze me as he invited me to a crime scene. He got me to run without my cane the next day. I moved in, and the nightmares stopped. I was happier. Happier than I’d been since going to Afghanistan. My life was filled with action and danger again. There was a fire in my heart once again, and it wasn’t going out anytime soon.


End file.
